Who Happened in Budapest
by EvilNerdProductions
Summary: People have been disappearing in Budapest. Global security being threatened causes two of S.H.E.I.L.D.'s best agents to be put onto the case, Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff. Little do they know that the Angels are behind the disappears, and the odd man with a blue box is really the Doctor. Rated M for later content, and other fandom characters will appear. SuperWhoAvengerLock.
1. Metal Jungel

This is a WhoAvenger story so far, but I'm considering throwing in Supernatural in the later chapters. Maybe even Sherlock. This is also my fist fanfic, so I'm sure there are a few mistakes. Feel free to send me some creative criticism, or mention if I made any spelling errors. The next chapter shall be longer.

No matter how much water the man drank, the metallic taste of blood refused to wash out of his mouth. The small cut that had split open the blond man's hair was healing, but every now and then it open back up when he spoke. And if you where to ask any one of his fellow S.H.E.I.L.D members, they would probably tell you he talked far too much. _Sarcasm is just too complex for all the hard-asses in this joint. _

The walk to his small room felt like a hike through a metal jungle as he hung down another long corridor. Vines of metal hung across the ceiling, turning and scattering in all directions, pumping god knows what through the quite hallways. Everything seemed to be made of the same polished steel, making the headquarters seem more like a spaceship than a home. _We're really just like the Brady Bunch, expect clad in leather and trained to kill._

"Barton!" A familiar voice called out from somewhere behind him. Clint walked faster.

"Baron, don't make me chase you!" He could here the other man's pace speed up, sighing, he stopped to wait for Coulson to catch up. "Wow, they really got you good. Have you seen the medic yet? Your lip's bleeding-"

"I'm not in the mood to have my booboo's kissed. I just want to get some sleep, so just lay on whatever you want to tell me sir." Barton had a hard time keeping his agitation out of his voice, but the pain arching through his body was starting to make it hard for him to see straight.

Coulson didn't seem to pick up on his harsh tone, or perhaps he was ignoring it. "We have a new mission for you-"

"I just got back from a mission, I need sleep." Turing on his heels, the younger man began to walk away, dismissing the idea before it could be pinned to him. He was tired, not just physically strained, but also mentally. He had just spent a week tracking down a foreign overlord in South America, navigating the twisted streets of a broken little town, killing the man in his sleep before he could blink awake. Clint needed a sometime to just sleep on a bed, eat some American food, and hit a punching bag.

"This is big Barton. National security level big. I'm not sending you on a dinky mission to the corner store, this requires serious expertise. You are going and you will be accompanied by Agent Romanoff. I am not asking you. I'm telling you." Coulson called after him, slowing Clint to a stop.

The blond man's mind went spiraling in a hundred different directions. Phil wanted him on working on a high priority mission. They were moving him up in the ranks. Or testing him. Plus they were adding Romanoff into the mix, the firecracker that had almost cost him his job. And his life, though he would never admit it. It all stunk of Fury.

"When do I leave?" Clint asked, peering over his shoulder at the well dressed man. There was an odd look on Coulson's face. He couldn't tell if it was pity or worry. Maybe it was both.

"Tomorrow morning, O'five hundred. Hanger eight. You'll be debriefed on the plane." Coulson replied, face once again becoming a smooth work of stone. Nodding, the older man turned and walked back in the direction from which he had come.

"Plane? Where the hell are we going?" Barton yelled after him, wondering where Fury was shipping him off to this time.

"Budapest."

Slipping into the dim hanger, the woman approached the small group of men soundlessly, moving as swiftly and silently as a winter breeze. Hair the colour of an open flame tumbled down her shoulders, framing her expressionless face. Only the deep irises of green eyes seemed to hold a spark of life.

Falling into place next to Barton, she nodded in greeting. Couslon returned the gesture and ushered them onto a small jet. It was a standard stealth aircraft used for long distance flights, completely black and beautifully constructed. Taking a seat on one of the benches lining the side of the small room inside the plane, she waited in silence.

"What's the buzz, tell me what's a happenin?" Clint asked in a sing songy voice, thick with sleep, as he slumped into the seat across from her. Her full lips twitched ever so slightly upward at the reference, but the redhead remained silent.

"Come on Coulson, that was funny. You don't like Jesus Christ Superstar? That is a damn good musical." Looking at the unamused expression on the other man's face, the blond let out a sigh. "Clearly this is going to be a fun trip."

"Here's what's happening," Coulson said, producing a smile out of Clint, "there has been a recent outbreak of disappearances in Budapest. I'm talking big names, politicians, world leaders even. It seems as though they're off for a stroll one minute, then off the face of the planet the next. You're mission is intelligence. We want to know what's going on."

"Why are you sending two of your best agents on a simple intelligence mission. Wouldn't it make more sense to send someone like Mark from level 2 or Kat-"

"We did. They're missing too." Coulson's frown deepened, silencing Barton. "We have sent multiple agents, informers, some of our best. They don't come back. That's why we are sending you two. You both have proved successful in the face of adversity, so we figure you might have a change-"

"To end up floating around in a void somewhere? We're not your top agents; we're your last choice. We're all you've got left-" The blond's voice raised an octave in anger.

"Yes." Coulson finished, giving a thumbs up to the pilot before exiting. A low rumble filled the heavy silence as the jet took off, shipping them off their likely doom. It was a somber moment, but it was only the beginning.


	2. Who Else?

Soft blue light washed over the aged gothic buildings, bringing the intricate stone carvings to life. Creatures out of myth and old lore sat high above the couple, on the edge of fading roofs, watching in silence. Laughter drifted through the cobblestone streets, echoing and filling the night with sound. They city itself was lively, though not large in population. It was a quiet slice of heaven in a loud overbearing world. Or so it seemed.

The couple moved at a leisurely pace, wearing simple attire, radiating ordinary for the few who happened upon them. Nothing about them would stick in any on lookers mind, and that was precisely what they were trying for. The redhead kept her arm looped through the blonds', a serine smile adorned on her moon lit face. It wasn't a real smile, but that was far beside the point.

"This is just like Moscow all over again." The man whispered, not wanting his voice to echo down the alley before them

"You and I remember Moscow very differently." The women replied, raising her eyes to the night sky. The stars looked similar, regardless of where she went. As a child it had comforted her knowing the stars where always shinning, even if hidden behind a cloud. It was slightly foolish, but the night sky had been like a safety blanket, though it was never something she would admit too. Nothing had been constant in her younger years, and the dark was a place she always thrived; it made sense that the concept of stars, something always to be found, put her at ease. It was like the watched over her, burning bright in the dark, just like her.

"Here's our stop." Clint said with a relieved sigh, hopping up the grand staircase to the main entrance with subtle grace. It was easy to forget how skilled the man was, with all the layers of sarcasm and stone masking his underlying personality. But sometimes Natasha would catch a glimpse of his catlike reflexives in the smallest of actions, and it was breathtaking.

Holding the door of the hotel open for her with a small cheesy grin, the redhead entered, nodding a thanks at the man. The room was filled with a warm golden light, and a heat that took away the cool kiss of night. Together they joined hands and walked over the reception desk.

"Good evening sir, my husband and I have a room here for the next couple of nights." Natsha said smoothly in a practiced Hungarian. The suited man behind the desk had no trouble finding their reservations and giving them their keys. Feigning the bubbly happiness of a newly married couple, the two made their way to the elevator.

Once inside it was a matter of seconds before Barton broke out into real laugher. "Furry put us in the honeymoon suite." He gasped out between fits of throaty giggles.

Natasha's smile turned real for half a moment at the idea of Nick Furry, standing clad in black leather, eye patch in place, asking one of his men to book him a honeymoon suite. "Well, snookums, I guess we should make the most of it." She replied, producing another laugh out of Clint.

"I'm in honeybunch." The man said, wiping a tear away from his eyes. The doors open and they found themselves in a well lit hallway, decorated in fine art. Turing down to the end door, they opened it to find one of the nicest rooms in Budapest.

Neither of them took a moment to appreciate the fine linen, or intricate floor work. Both began to open the black bags that had been delivered as well as the ones they were carrying. Spreading out blades and maps across the massive king sized bed, they caught each other's eye.

"Best. Honeymoon. Ever." Clint said, snapping his bow into place.

- - - - - - - - - - - meanwhile - - - - - - - - - - -

"You're telling me you can't do that weird zappy thing anymore?" Dean asked in a slightly desperate voice. It was twenty minutes until their connection flight arrives, and Dean was becoming antsy.

"I've told you before Dean, most of my powers have been taken away. I would teleport us if I could." Castiel responded in a somber tone, receiving a questioning look from the women a few seats away.

"You've going to be fine, stop whining. I mean honestly, we've made it all the way to London already without a hitch. What makes you think the rest of the flight to Budapest is going to be an issue?" Sam said in a tired voice, asking more for his brother's sake than for real interest. The younger brother had learned years ago that the Dean didn't complain often out of legitimate worry, so when he was actually willing to talk about fears, it was best to just let him go off.

"It's pure luck that we made it this far. Seriously, being in a big metal object over deep water is the stupidest thing I've ever head. Why would someone legitimately want that? Why would people pay money for that?" He said in an angry hushed voice, wiping his brow with a twitching hand.

"How can you still be afraid of planes after everything we've been through?" Sam asked in a dull voice, leaning his aching head back against the waiting room seat. This trip was taking all the energy out of him, Sam really just wanted to curl up and sleep for a year. He was sure Dean would feel the same if it wasn't for all the adrenaline pumping through him.

"Being through scary shit doesn't make the other shit less scary." Dean replied seriously.

"What doesn't bodily excrement have to do with anything? Why would it be scary." Cas asked confused. Sam let out a weak laugh his half asleep body could barely muster. Dean didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the ridiculousness of it all. In the end he just reacher across the gap and patted Cas on the knee saying "never mind". Leaning his forehead into his clammy hands, Dean nudges his brother back awake with his foot.

"Explain this to me one more time Sammy." Dean asked, receiving a groan in protest. "Come on man, give me something to think about."

Opening his eyes back up, Sam stretches slightly before taking the journal out of his small pack. Flipping to a page near the beginning and unfolding a few new printouts, he hands it to Dean.

"Okay, so there is this legend that's been passed down for a long time, but its origins are unclear. There are these creatures, angelic I've read, that kills people with time." Sam mumbles groggily, yawning halfway through.

"How the hell do you kill something with time?" Dean asks for the hundredth time, reading over the pages for the thousandth time.

"I'm not entirely sure, maybe it ages people or something. Anyways, people around them disappear for some reason."

"Do these things eat people? What do they do with the people?" Dean said, rereading the same article again about Sally Sparrow.

"No, no blood, no body, just gone. People disappeared. Time involved somehow." Sam said with a sigh, knowing he would probably get asked this question again later.

"This doesn't make any sense, could real angels be involved somehow? Like Zachariah? Maybe-" Dean's words are lost as a woman bursts out crying a few rows away from them. All three of them turn to look in unison, eyes coming to rest upon a tall man with curly black hair.

"You're horrible!" The women dressed in a business suit shrieks before running off to the washroom, leaving the tall man in confusion and the blond man beside him grumbling.

"Let's go to Budapest he says. I promise I'll be nice he says. Do you know your husband has a secret family with another woman he says." John muttered to himself, grabbing the man's arm and directing him over to the emptier area of the boarding area.

"Why does the truth always offended people so much? I just saved her years of a pointless marriage, she should have thanked me-" The well dressed man protested as he was lead over to an empty seat.

"Thank her? You twit, people don't want to hear that kind of truth so bluntly. They can't handle it Sherlock." The blond sighed, sinking into a plastic blue chair.

"What should I have said? You're hair looks lovely, you're husband fell out of love with you five years ago." Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms and speaking the last half of the sentence in a mocking tone. John simply frowns, knowing it's not good to argue.

"If you had just called you brother and asked for a private jet we wouldn't be here." John adds, looking over his shoulder. He felt like eyes were glued to the back of his head, and as he turned he caught a glimpse of three men looking away like bashful school children at being caught.

"Then I would have to owe him something," Sherlock said simply, scanning the room with his all seeing eyes. "I don't like owing him things."

"Yeah, and I don't like going on a wild goose chase across the continent for some disappears." John said in a huff, trailing Sherlock's eyes with his own. All he would see was a small crowd of people, but he was sure what the other man saw could fill a book.

"Goose chase? This is the case of a century John, your lack of interest offends me." Sherlock frowned, snapping he eyes back to the smaller man.

"Everything offends you. You're a big ball curiosity wrapped up in agitation level of a five year old." John said, looking the Sherlock in the eye.

"A five year old is an inept enigma that like to stuff cheerios up its nose, I am nothing of the sort." He said, returning to his slight pouty face.  
"Right, why would I make that connection?" John said, already 300% done with the day.

"John, really. This case involves missing world leaders and a complexity that I've never seen before. We can't not go." He tries to explain, wishing John could understand for half a moment.

"We don't have to do anything. Our place is on Baker street." John says with a deep sigh, remembering this soft chair sitting in 221B.

"I didn't force you to come, you could have stayed home with Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock snapped, looking out the window.

"But I'd be lost without my detective." John said simply, knowing it was true.

A smile formed on Sherlock's lips as the boarding was announced over the PA system. "The game is afoot."


End file.
